“Ha!” he said, at last. “A pretty set of fellows you are, to let a man stay in that way all night. Dunderheads—sleepers—ten thousand curses on your heads!”
“Steady, Tracey,” said Garrett. “What does this mean?”
“It means you are a lot of lazy thieves, or you would have found this out four hours ago.”
“Who did it?”
“How do I know? I was sitting there smoking my pipe, when I felt a great hairy hand upon my throat, and I was choking. Then I lost my senses, and when I came to myself, I was lying here, anchored to the tree, and unable to move hand or foot.”
“Why didn’t you sing out?”
“Why didn’t I fly?” retorted Tracey, angrily. “I wouldn’t be a fool if I were you, Dick Garrett. Oh, curse the hand, whoever it was. Where’s my rifle?”
The question naturally drew their attention to their own weapons, and as they noted the loss, curses both loud and deep were vented upon the head of the being who had done this injury to them. Garrett actually foamed at the mouth in his anger, and ran in a frantic manner up and down the camp, cursing Tracey, their unknown enemy, any thing and every thing under the sun, in no measured terms.
“That’s it,” said Tracey. “Curse your own sleepy heads, and let me alone.”
“Look for sign, Jack Fish,” said Garrett, turning to their trailer. “Tell me who has done this?”